


as the thorn among lilies

by Yeah_JSmith



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: AU Worldbuilding, Activism, Bigotry & Prejudice, F/F, F/M, Judith "Judy" Hopps Regrets Changing Her Name, Non-Linear Narrative, Politics, Seriously I Invented An Entire Argot, Sheer Linguistic Nerdery, Social Commentary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-01 22:36:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20265610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeah_JSmith/pseuds/Yeah_JSmith
Summary: She's like grit under your claws, a fly in the ointment, unapologetically there when nobody wants her and difficult to remove. Nick is always there beside her, and he doesn't always have her back, but he always has her heart.(Or; in a canon-divergent AU where Judy spent her teens and early 20's doing activism and service instead of sports and Nick declined to attend the ZPA, Judy deals with the hefty fallout of being a whistleblower, reconnects with her cultural identity, and reconsiders what battles are worth fighting.)





	as the thorn among lilies

**Author's Note:**

> Listen. Listen. I've been wicked nostalgic. I hated my childhood and here I am, writing about it, projecting my bullshit onto fictional characters. This deals with some heavy topics despite its length, including culture clashes, intersectionality failures, religion in politics, and the kind of passively prejudiced practices that prompt kids to change their names. It is 100% a thing that happens, and although it's not always racism or xenophobia or whatever that keeps teachers from learning kids' names in the long-term, it's usually (not always, but usually) what makes them initially uninterested in doing an iota of research. I changed my name in large part because so many people kept getting it wrong. I kinda regret it now.
> 
> IMPORTANT: Don't read this story if you get annoyed by blatant political commentary. Or by sublanguages and/or footnotes. My argot, which in part makes use of the fictional language Lapine, is a very small part of the story, but it's still there. Ÿudeehlï is pronounced with a soft J, like the G in beige, EE sounds like a long A, hl has a bit of a cheek-whistle in it, and ï is pronounced with a quick long-E and “uh” sound tied up in each other. Together, you’ve got “Yjoo-DAY-hlya.” 3.5 syllables.
> 
> Title is a reversed epithet from _Song of Songs,_ because sometimes you accidentally read scripture when you meant to read porn, you know how it is.

**2022**

“Look,” Nick says, holding up a single paw to stall her argument, “I don’t like Partridge any more than you do, but this is a _ huge leap, _Carrots. Huge. This is exactly what you’ve been fighting for since you quit the ZPD. Protection for foxes...this is the kind of thing my dad dreamed about when I was a kit.”

It’s been three years since Judy blew the whistle on a police brutality case that ended in two dead girls who were dating each other. Just teenagers being teenagers, but Swinton lost her shit because of the queer-in-public aspect and her partner, Porcino, was trigger-happy. Traditionalist media tried to paint Melody the red fox as an aggressor, and Lucy the babydoll sheep as a victim of her own girlfriend — they were both dead, who would argue with the official narrative? — but Judy had none of it. 

Disgrace to the uniform. Deviant. Degenerate. Just another diversity hire who couldn’t hack it and had to get the last word in. Judy heard it all. They dug into her personal life, outed her interspecies relationship with Nick Wilde and her brief college romance with Sylvia the raccoon, wondered on live TV why she’d changed her name from Ÿudeehlï to Judith (what did she have to hide?), made a joke of her family’s faith. She stood firm in the face of all of it, Nick beside her holding her paw, because she wanted to do the right thing.

It’s been three years and _ finally, _after marching in the streets and working odd jobs with odder hours and meeting with reporters, activist groups, and even attorneys, there’s a measure on the floor with built-in protections for foxes. It’s a diversity bill, functionally speaking, and a more progressivist court will interpret it broadly, but by mentioning both foxes and interspecies partnerships as examples of hate crime targets, it protects mammals like Melody and Lucy even from traditionalist interpretations. It protects mammals like Nick and, ostensibly, Judy herself.

But Senator Partridge, for all that he’s a progressivist, has his own biases, his own blind spots. He’s willing to compromise. He’s been suspiciously silent on queer matters even when they’re relevant to his constituents, and he’s uncomfortably religious — thankfully not the fundamentalist type, but if you’re not Northern Winds, you’re not moral enough for him. Put enough of those in a room together and they’ll forget they’re supposed to be representing everyone. It happens all the time. A charitable interpretation paints them as absentminded rather than deliberately exclusive, and Judy commits to that interpretation most of the time, but after everything, secretly she suspects she’s being too kind.

In traditional Lapine stories, Ÿudeehlï was a rebel, a seeker of justice, a cunning doe who did what was right even if it wasn’t what was good. Partridge would know that, if he cared to look, but he still assumes Judy’s parents went through an unfortunate hippie phase.

“It _ isn’t _ exactly what I’ve been fighting for,” she wants to say. Nick is so happy, though. So she’ll let him celebrate tonight, and _ tomorrow _ she’ll bring up the problems with Partridge’s changes to the measure. _ Tomorrow _ she’ll tell him Partridge’s joke about why there are no bunny accountants (the punchline is _ so _ hilarious, _ really, _ she’s never heard a joke about bunnies being _ too _ good at multiplying before, Senator Partridge, how _ clever). _

“I love you,” she says instead, reaching out to grab his paw. She kisses his knuckles and he beams at her. He’s _ so happy. _Nick showed her a better way of living — he taught her about the ground level of Zootopia, he taught her through his actions that just because she’s not typical doesn’t mean she’ll be forever alone — and she hates the idea of hurting him.

But the ground level isn’t everything. It’s not enough to say _ well, I got mine. _

* * *

**2001**

The first time she understands the difference between herself and other bunnies, she’s nine. They’re all starting fourth grade and the teacher’s assigned a short essay about what they want to do when they grow up. Sharla wrote about being an astronaut. Bobby wrote about being a rock star. Judy’s hardly listened to anybody else’s presentation, so excited is she to read her essay.

“You-dee-lie,” the teacher calls, looking around the classroom. He squints at the paper and tries again. “Yuh-day-lih? Hopps?”

“Oh! Present,” Judy cries, ignoring the way her chest hurts. It’s the second week already. It isn’t that hard of a name, is it? They are in Bunnyburrow. Then again, Lapine isn’t even the main language anymore; Commons is. Lapine is mostly just used for ritual purposes or by really traditional families, and he _ is _a sheep, but surely...well, it doesn’t matter. She goes through this song every year, with every teacher, every coach. So does every bunny with a traditional name. She smiles brightly, because she’s found a workaround, and says, “You can call me Judy, Mr. Greenley.”

“Right. Judy,” the teacher affirms. “Come up here and read your essay. What kind of farmer would you like to be?”

Judy straightens her back and marches up to the front of the classroom. She’ll show him! She’s good at writing, she thinks — much better at writing than at speaking, in any case, because she can proofread and make sure everything is correct — so she reads from the page directly, trying to mind her lisps. Teachers hate the lisps. Proudly, she tells the class, “I Will Be a Police Officer.”

There are giggles. She ignores them.

“When I was four, my sister died,” she continues, and that shuts them up. She tries not to feel good about it, because feeling good about Rose’s death isn’t right, but who are they to judge her? “Detectives from Zootopia came to investigate whether it was fail play. They discovered it was an accident and gave my parents closure. The tiger detective gave me a sticker and told me I can do anything I set my mind to. I set my mind to make the world a better place. I’m going to be a police officer. Thank you.”

“Well, that’s.” The teacher gives her some kind of look she can’t read. “I’ll return your essay with some notes. Thank you for the presentation, Judy.”

She skips back to her seat, beaming. He thanked her! She did a good job! She doesn’t even mind that every other bunny in class talks about farming. He officially becomes her least favorite teacher, though, when she gets her essay back, red-penned and un-stamped, with the note _ Rabbits cannot be police officers. _

(Later, Mr. Greenley will receive an anonymous letter with a big photo, clipped out of a newspaper, of Judy in her police uniform, shaking paws with Mayor Lionheart. In red pen are the words _ Rabbits can, in fact, be police officers. _

Judy will never admit to sending it, and it will be true. She’s only called and asked Sharla to do it for her, because unlike Judy, Sharla is the type to follow through on a spiteful plan.)

* * *

**2022**

You’d think Judy was an early bird by the way she behaves. It’s half-true; she doesn’t hate mornings, and she doesn’t have trouble getting up with the alarm, but if she doesn’t _ set _an alarm, she could sleep all day. Nick is usually up before she is, puttering around the kitchen making coffee or tea, scrolling through social media on his phone or reading one of the novels they have on their shelf. Sometimes he brings her breakfast in bed, and sometimes he wakes her with a loud noise that startles her so much she jumps out of the covers. Sometimes he just lets her sleep. It depends on how he’s feeling. 

It’s nice to be the first one up. The sun’s just barely peeking through the curtains, lighting up his face. _ (So happy.) _ She wants to wrap them both up in the sunlight and find a quiet, safe place for them to stay tucked away. But that’s not real. Even when they’re pretending everything’s perfect, the shadow of truth hangs over them like a shroud. Some other mammals, she supposes, have the luxury to look away. But foxes are just barely getting recognized as a protected species, and rabbits…

It’s not like it’s _ bad, _ right? There are the jokes, and the disregard for history and culture. There’s the generalization, and the cute thing, and not being taken seriously. There’s the fetishization and the fact that a bunny is 23% more likely than any other species to be the victim of a sex crime, and the fact that those statistics are skewed because most bunnies are too afraid to fight back or even admit they were attacked, so most of those crimes are considered “nonviolent.” (In plain language: “unimportant” or “nonexistent.” Three cheers for law enforcement.) But it’s not like they’re being gunned down in large numbers, or beaten up because of violent _ hatred _for their species, and they have their own spaces like Bunnyburrow where they make up the majority of the population, and Judy still doesn’t fear for her safety half as much as she fears for Nick’s. Historically, foxes have been treated like garbage, and at least Judy can’t get fired for being a bunny. 

Maybe...well, Partridge’s joke was gross, but is that little punch down really bad enough to not support him on the protections for foxes? Isn’t Nick _ worth _it? Maybe they can pin the Senator down on queer issues and that will be enough. Everybody says comedy is subjective, and anyway, sometimes you have to pick your battles. 

Judy’s picked plenty of battles before, and ignored others. Maybe this is one that isn’t worth fighting. Maybe she should just go back to sleep and let him have this one.

* * *

**2010**

Judy Hopps does not cave to peer pressure.

She’s the first of her family to go to college; she’s the first of her family to leave the farm; she’s the first of her family to _ do something _other than settle. If she were susceptible to peer pressure, none of that would be true. She just...well, she moves quickly and precisely and deliberately, and she likes to be amicable when she can, and sometimes that means making sacrifices. Little things that don’t matter, like not making a fuss when someone talks down on her family’s profession, or not correcting misunderstandings about bunny culture, or going by a nickname for the sake of convenience. 

“It ain’t like I hazza no consider it from other angles,” she says patiently, when Sharla — a sheep, and her best friend of twelve years — tries to talk her out of it during one of their weekly phone calls. “I won’t binky wain my ears over my eyes.[3] The ZPA won’t look at me wain — _ with _ a name like Ÿudeehlï. At least if my name’s Judith Hopps, they might assume I’m a gazelle and admit me on my grades and extracurriculars.”

She’s still trying to train herself out of the cant that has become a staple of the teen counterculture in Bunnyburrow. Ÿarre isn’t recognized as its own dialect, but enough residents of bunny towns speak it that it probably should be. The tired, cynical piece of Judy (which she always refuses to acknowledge) says that’s just another side effect of bunny speciesism. The much more prominent optimist in her just chalks it up to the subversive, secretive nature of the cant itself. You are either lili or elil — insider or outsider — and speakers, non-bunny allies, are rare outside havens like Bunnyburrow and the Briars of Arcadia. It isn’t that other species don’t dabble in allyship, it’s just that most folks think of bunnies as a joke that doesn’t need telling, and trust is more easily lost than gained.

Judy’s summer activist group tossed around terms like “performative” and “transactional.” She wants them to be wrong. They never talked about bunnies, though, only predators, so maybe it doesn’t apply. The Real World has a lot of rules that only make sense if you live there, like _ you can’t be afraid of other species, _ and _ names have to fit a certain mold, _ and _ there is such a thing as a wrong question. _ You aren’t supposed to mark your territory — Society has moved beyond such Antiquated Traditions — and it isn’t rude for a koala to ask a bunny why she believes she deserves her scholarship when any number of _ non-minorities _were relying on that chance, but it’s unspeakably rude for a bunny to ask that koala why he believes he’s qualified to ask, or she’s qualified to answer.

(It’s almost enough to drive her back to Bunnyburrow, which is, she thinks, the point. But Judy Hopps doesn’t cave to peer pressure.)

A legal name change is a long process for most mammals, but for a bunny, it tends to be much easier. In traditional bunny families, birth certificates are hardly a priority; when you aren’t meant to leave the warren, you only need a TIN. All Judy has to do is give them her chosen name when applying for her official identification documents for college. Instead of a $400 months-long court proceeding, it’s a $30 request that takes 7-10 business days.

By the time her first semester starts, Ÿudeehlï Hopps is Judith Hopps. Her parents were a little sad about it, and Sharla was disappointed that she’d caved to the big machine, but Judy knows that sometimes you have to pick your battles. It’s hard enough to be the only rabbit on campus, stared at but not entirely included; she doesn’t need the extra hassle of correcting professors and administration and other mammals who try to read her name. She already spent her teens Commonsizing her name to Judahlia, and _ still _managing to get mispronunciations from teachers and non-bunny students.

“Judith,” she says into the mirror the morning of her first class. It feels strange on her tongue, but she’ll get used to it.

And she does.

By the time she graduates from the ZPA, she hardly remembers how to pronounce the name she was given at birth.

* * *

**2022**

Nick is beside her when she meets with the attorney who’s been working with her to get this measure written and picked up. Generally, he stays out of affairs like this; he’s never been unwilling to stand beside her, but he doesn’t like watching her do this to herself. This kind of diplomacy, he says, is debasement. Butt-kissing. She lets things slide so that she can win bigger, more important battles.

Nick’s problem is that until recently, he never _ believed in _ anything. It’s hard to explain working for a cause when your target audience spent decades only out for himself. And it’s not his fault that he learned to be selfish as a kit — she’d never blame him, _ never, _he got hurt and mistreated — but she appreciates that he’s finally willing to move forward.

“I understand your concerns, but not everything is going to be perfect,” says Sylvia Appleton, going for soothing. She’s a civil rights attorney Judy used to be close to. These days, they’re civil enough, but they can’t be friends. Not after the way things played out between them. “When we make change _ the right way, _it’s a slow process. Species is a much more visible problem, Judith.”

_ Judith, _ Nick mouths in confusion. Judy cringes, not keen to explain that Sylvia used to call her that almost exclusively back in college. She focuses on the conversation at paw and squeezes Nick’s for stability. “I don’t understand why you’re okay with letting it go, _ Ms. Appleton. _You got up and made a big public speech. You’re queer.”

“And clearly you’re not,” Sylvia snips, her eyes lingering on the clasped paws, Nick’s increasingly-protective body language, the way Judy instinctively angles herself toward him. 

It isn’t worth the petty argument. Judy doesn’t think Sylvia’s being deliberately biphobic, she’s just being petty and spiteful because of their history. It’s like she doesn’t remember why they broke up. So instead of defending herself and her relationship with Nick, she sighs and says, “I know that sacrifices need to be made. But he didn’t respond to the bathroom bill before it got squashed, and he didn’t make any kind of statement when his preacher friend said those things about gays being a step away from pedophilia, and I think it’s important to make sure the community doesn’t get ignored in this just because he’s religious.”

Sylvia’s expression softens. “Most of his constituents are, Hopps. He’s walking a line that you don’t have to. This is politics. If you want to do good, you can’t always do right. I know that to someone like you, it looks weak. It looks like capitulation. To someone like him, it’s fighting dirty. You didn’t understand it when we were stupid cubs, and I guess you still don’t understand it now: optimism is a useful tool, but you have to be able to put it away. You’re good at bending the world to your whims, for a little while. But look what happens when you lose your grip for even a second. What are you doing now, washing dishes for a local restaurant? Or did you just decide to _ lean in _and do sex work?”

“That’s enough,” Nick says coldly.

“Can’t stomach the idea?”

He grins, a not-nice expression for starters that promises not-nice words for dessert. “I’d support whatever Judy decided to do. Hell, we’d probably do better financially if that _ were _her thing; it’s not my business what she does with her body. I just won’t stand here and listen to you do your damnedest to hurt her. For a civil rights attorney, you’re a real bitch.”

Judy’s torn between absolute love for this stupid, mean, adorable, _ wonderful _ fox who wants to stand up for her, and shame at his words. Both make her want to melt into the floor for different reasons. That’s the worst thing a fox could call a female, and it was deliberate, and it is very Nick to be a jerk to be kind. 

“I can see we’re wasting our time here,” she interjects, hoping to mitigate the damage, or at least to keep them from going at each other’s throats. “I hope you’re right, Ms. Appleton.”

For the record, she’s not washing dishes anymore. There’s not much you can do with a criminal justice degree without more schooling, but as it turns out, to work IT over the phone, all you need to know is how to thumb through a manual and ask whether they’ve turned their device off and on again.

* * *

**2012**

Sylvia has a beautiful tail, but what Judy really admires is her mind. She’s constantly on the go, bright ideas and bright conclusions. Her hero is RBG from the Supreme Court _ (“you can’t spell truth without Ruth”) _, and she’s pre-law, so they have a couple of classes together. Sometimes, Judy thinks she can see herself with Sylvia forever; maybe Sylvia’s not someone Judy’s parents would have picked for her, but they’re a good match. They could make a life together, the cop and the attorney, making the world a better place. Sometimes, their little world is euphoria all around.

Other times, they scream at each other.

“I don’t want you putting yourself in danger,” Sylvia shouts for what has to be the twelfth time, gesturing up and down Judy’s body. Judy isn’t bleeding anymore, but it could have been worse, and they both know it. “There’s a time and place, Judith! It was all over the news; you could have been arrested! Or killed!”

“Well excuse me for caring,” Judy replies hotly, “because the rest of the world doesn’t!”

It wasn’t supposed to get so out of paw. It was supposed to be a peaceful protest, practically a _ vigil _ for the red panda who got killed by her date, but mostly a show of solidarity and anger after the criminally light sentence. Trans panic isn’t a legitimate defense, but that doesn’t stop traditionalists from using it to justify his actions, to blame her for her own murder — mammalslaughter. Her date was a hare, so that’s another layer of suck on the whole situation — bunnies are supposed to be passive, timid, so if he got violent then clearly she was just _ asking _ for it — and how could Judy _ not _go? Her little activist group planned the whole thing. A peaceful protest.

Just, Hedgerow University is in a traditionalist area, and there are mammals who would rather see all trans mammals dead, and Judy jumped in to defend her friend. It’s one of the inherent dangers of protesting: it might turn ugly. No matter how peaceful you mean for it to be, someone might come looking for trouble. And if they’re really spoiling for a fight — if they’re really committed to violence — there are two courses of action: defend yourself, or fight back. 

Judy knows which battles are worth fighting. If she’s going to get punched, she’s taking the aggressor down with her.

“I can’t just stand by and watch you throw yourself into these situations. We’re not cubs anymore. This is your life — this is _ our _life. You could stand to take it a little more seriously!”

“I do! I want to make the world a better place-”

“And you can, but not like this! You are a _ bunny! _ You’re not like Hannah; you could _ die _ or get _ stepped on _and I can’t handle that. If you can’t appreciate how delicate you really are, then we can’t be together.”

Judy stops, and her eyes widen. In a much quieter voice, she asks, “Are you breaking up with me?”

“I don’t know,” Sylvia replies, looking her dead in the eye. “Am I?”

“Someone who really loved me would accept me for who I am.” She’s shaking. She feels like crying. This is it: the end she hoped wouldn’t come. She hoped Sylvia could meet her where she is. “I’ll get my things.”

She’s still shaking when she makes it back to her dorm.

She’ll always believe she did the right thing.

* * *

**2022**

Gideon Grey’s mom died, so Judy rode out to support him for a couple of days. Red foxes are one of the only species who do burial rites, and Judy knows enough from Nick and his mother, Ruth, that she can participate respectfully, unlike most of Bunnyburrow. 

She’s at the local pub with some old friends, Antha and Flora and Daÿernthï, and they’ve been drinking perhaps more than they should at their age. Judy can feel her thirties creeping into her hips in the mornings, but right now she needs the alcohol. And with the alcohol and companionship comes the cant of her youth, the language she spoke all summer when they traveled and during the year when they hung out, the secret code that identified allies (and drove their parents and teachers nuts).

“It ain’t tharntha,”[1] she slurs with a twirl of her paw reminiscent of Nick at his most irritating. “I always hazza be[+] a thumper,[2] but I can’t binky wain my ears over my eyes[3] this time.”

“Yeah, notte that,”[4] Flora snorts into her drink. 

Antha, always itching for a reason to be angry at the system that fails bunnies on a regular basis, scowls down at his bowl of celery sticks. “He could raise hain[5] for ya. You ain’t a roo[6] little strop,[7] nor hlessi,[8] least you hazza no be before, but you — you wainthail.[9] An’ he oughtta be there for ya.”

But, Judy’s starting to realize, she’s not what they think. “I am a strop, Antha. I hazza raise hain for everybody but me. I hazza change my name so _ they _ don’t have trouble. I ain’t grass,[10] nor butcher,[11] but I am a strop. A stupid roo little strop.”

“Ain’t a shame to want to be hytha,[12] Ÿudeehlï,” says Daÿernthï with something like bitterness and compassion combined. “Flash and respect. We hazza no be there wain ya when you hazza need us. Nick chooses you. He wainthail too, ain’t he? You need to talk to him. I bet he’ll raise hain for ya if he knows the stakes.”

“Yeah,” she says, already feeling better about it. Nick will fight for her. He _ will. _ It’s just that he needs to know there’s a fight to be had, right? He’s not omniscient. “Silftha,[13] he the best partner I can ask for. He hazza change my life thlay[14] to zen.”[15]

They just need to talk. He’ll support her. She’s _ sure _of it.

* * *

**2017**

“No,” she tells her reflection firmly. It scowls back at her. She thinks the scowl looks convincing, but she isn’t sure how it will hold up when she looks at Nick. She points her forefinger for emphasis and repeats, _ “No.” _

Nick has never asked for anything Judy doesn’t want to give. She worries over it anyway, not because of her own feelings — she’s been through worse things than having to do something she doesn’t want to do — but because she knows that if Nick found out that Judy forced herself through something unpleasant for fear of saying that word, he would never forgive himself. Hannah’s warning about transactional self-care nags at her a little, but she ignores it, because functionally, isn’t it the same end result? 

Love is so confusing.

She’s sure she loves him. It’s hard sometimes; their relationship began sourly, with mean banter and blackmail. They both said speciesist things, they both acted out of prejudice, and as much as she’d like to put it all away, she can’t. She still has some ingrained biases about foxes that he seems keen to prove correct, and he doesn’t see the problem with making bunny jokes. It’s just that these days he doesn’t let anyone _ else _make them.

Even if they were the same species, there’s culture to think about, too. She comes from a passive culture, one that accepts the idea that things will happen to you, and you just have to let it happen. It’s a culture of settling for what you can get. But it’s still a rich one with a history, and stories, and traditions. Bunnies are too small to fight, so they run and sneak and come up with clever solutions. Ÿudeehlï defeated her enemy with tricks and poison. Settling for less is, in part, a passive-aggressive response to speciesism. When bunnies were told they were only good for food, they established farming towns. When bunnies were kept out of society, they established their own.

Nick, however, comes from a culture of movement. Ruth grew up on the move, in Winnebarkos with her aunties and uncles and cousins, working odd jobs and never staying in one place for more than a few months at a time. Her version of _ settling _ was to find a big city and get a real apartment, with walls and no wheels, knowing her Auntie Jane would never talk to her again. With no education, no work history, and no real skill set, what else could she do but put her looks and silver tongue to use as a con artist? Nick may not have grown up on the move, but Ruth passed on that culture, taught him about his family, taught him the _ dangers _of settling. 

Getting kicked out of a place hurts. Moving on makes it feel a little more distant, and if you move on enough it’s like it doesn’t hurt, even though it does.

Judy is an aberration among her species, but she is saturated in bunny-isms, little pieces of history and tradition she doesn’t think about. She never bought into religion, but sometimes when she smells melting wax she thinks of putting pieces of a sneaked cookie on her mother’s altar and smiles at the childhood memory. Nick embraces fox stereotypes, and sometimes when he’s stressed he’ll do the sign of the compass even though he’s never stepped foot inside a church. 

_ She loves him. _She thinks he loves her. The thing is, they’re not a good match. It’s hard work; being with Nick isn’t settling at all. It’s active love. It’s choosing him every day even when they disagree or clash over something neither of them have even considered before. The first time Judy brought home an egg sandwich Nick nearly had a fit. When he told her he wouldn’t be joining her at the ZPD Judy nearly cried. He thinks it’s weird that she chins all her stuff and she thinks it’s weird that he grooms himself so obsessively. 

He doesn’t like it that she doesn’t fit in. He worries that she’ll get hurt. He says she’s like grit under their claws, and they’re going to do what they can to remove her, even if it’s underpawed or outright illegal. But she wouldn’t be Judy Hopps if she didn’t _ try. _She just has to prove that being an aberration is good, that it’s permanent, that she’s capable of anything regardless of her species. 

(Not regardless. Never regardless. Her college activist friends used to make that clear, at least for predators.)

Years of choosing battles has made it hard for Judy to say no to the mammals she cares about most. So here she is, practicing. Hopefully, it’ll never be necessary, but even she knows the difference between optimism and willful stupidity.

* * *

**2022**

Coming home — because Zootopia _ is _home, no matter how long she lived in Bunnyburrow first — is always a little awkward. She has to reorient herself, reacquaint herself with the smells and sounds. She loves Zootopia like part of her own soul, and she doesn’t think she could bear to ever leave it, especially after spending so many years doing her part to protect it, and of course, she has Nick here. It’s just...a little strange.

She feels good, though. Her outing with her friends helped a lot, and the next day they spent time catching up with each other. Judy has never been very good at admitting when she’s hurt, because being strong is her “thing.” When times get tough, she rises to meet the challenge. She protects. She tries. Sometimes she fails, and sometimes it hurts, and sometimes she wants to give up, but in the end, that’s not who she is. It’s okay to not be that mammal all the time; she just needed a reminder.

It’s a quiet night in, the two of them sharing a bowl of fruit while a cheesy sitcom plays in the background. It’s one of the ones that tries too hard to be edgy but the writing team doesn’t have the guts to either aggressively embrace offensiveness or hit hard on social justice issues, so it’s trite and kind of boring; everybody’s seen this show, even if this is their first episode. That’s all right. At least it’s not yet another superhero show.

“I had fun in Bunnyburrow,” she tells Nick, softening the conversation from the beginning. 

“Yeah?”

She snuggles deeper into his fur. He’s shirtless, sprawled out on the couch like he doesn’t intend to move. She hopes he won’t. She could spend years in his lap, listening to his heartbeat. “Yeah. The old marlil[16] helped me feel better about the past few weeks. They helped me realize I need to talk to you about something important.”

Immediately, Nick grabs the remote and turns off the television. She swells with her love for him; no matter how mean he can get, he does what he can to show her that he loves her too, that he wants to prioritize her. The little things are just as important as the big ones, maybe moreso. He puts an arm loosely around her shoulders and asks, “What’s up?”

“It’s about Senator Partridge,” she says. “A couple of weeks ago he said something to me, and it was really gross. I didn’t say anything to you because you were so happy about the measure getting to the floor, but maybe that was the wrong move. Um. He said — it was a joke. Why can’t you trust a bunny to do your taxes? Because they’re _ too _good at multiplying.”

Nick snorts. “Wow. Imagine thinking that’s new material.”

“That’s not why it’s a bad joke, Nick.”

“No, of course not. It’s gross, I get it. He shouldn’t be joking about sex stereotypes,” he acknowledges.

This does not help. It only sets a small fire in her stomach as she wonders if he even understands what she has to go through. “That’s not _ it, _Nick, it’s — it’s speciesist. It’s not just about sex, it’s another way to say bunnies are dumb-”

“I doubt he really thought that deeply.”

“That doesn’t matter; other mammals heard the joke too, and _ they’re _going to think about it. There was another matter they were discussing, an adjacent bill that deals with punishments for sex crimes against rabbits, and they just...they all laughed it off, like statistics don’t matter.”

“Rape is _ already _a crime, Judy,” he says, and when she sits up, one of his eyebrows is raised to match his tone.

She frowns. “So is murder, but they’re discussing hate crimes against foxes. When the trend shows that a group is at risk of being disproportionately victimized, that’s when the law tries to make the punishment harsher. Or are you trying to say I’ve been wasting my time?”

“No! Cripes, Carrots, I just...it’s not the same. Foxes are getting murdered because they’re foxes. There’s actual hate there. Bunnies are just easy targets.”

Distantly, she feels herself shaking.

He _ doesn’t _know. He doesn’t see how the comments about bunnies and sex directly influence the way other species view bunnies. He doesn’t understand why Partridge’s joke could make her feel unsafe. He doesn’t see, or maybe refuses to see, how her species is singled out above other similarly-sized prey species? “Hate isn’t always violent. Sometimes it just shows up as a complete disregard for personhood.”

It feels like a canned response. This is the kind of thing she’s spent almost two decades saying. Instead of joining cheer like she’d planned, she joined an activist group on a whim, when she was thirteen, and spent her childhood summers doing service projects; she helped clean up and rebuild after natural disasters, she bussed out to protests with her friends, she volunteered at the River Valley youth shelter every weekend and stayed abreast of political issues. She helped organize underground charity events in Bunnyburrow whose proceeds went to queer teens who needed to escape their families. Teachers and parents called Judy’s little group punks and troublemakers, but at the end of the day, she knew she was doing and saying the right thing.

It just feels wrong having to say it to _ Nick. _

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he soothes, “but you’re _ prey. _Nobody wants to kill you off just for existing. You could at least be grateful for that.”

“Yeah,” she says hollowly, all the air blown out of her sails, thinking of the anti-bunny rhetoric out west _ (“they’re overwhelming us”) _ and the fact that bunnies still have their own slurs but they’re not allowed to complain about it because they’re _ comparatively not that bad. _ “In a way, I guess that’s true. Asking for more’s a bit school.”

_ School, _a Ÿarre term denoting a superfluous privilege. It comes from the history of needing formal identification to attend school. Things are different now, of course, but it’s written into the fabric of bunny culture: you are other. You should be grateful for what you have. Settle for what you can get.

(Nick _ doesn’t know. _He’s not purposely being hurtful.)

“You always come back speaking a new language,” he teases gently, pulling her back into his chest and scritching her head. She allows it. Usually she prides herself on being the grit under someone’s claws, but after the way their relationship began and how much he’s been there for her, she’s _ still _ so bad at saying no to him. “Are you ever going to teach me?”

Is it teachable? Can she actually give him the historical and cultural context he needs to not only speak the cant, but understand the idioms? Will he understand and respect _ why _“wainthail” also means “boundary-pusher,” or will he think it’s silly? So much of her species is a joke. They barely care to tell the difference between rabbits and hares in media, never mind get the nuances of their regional cultures right, and the one TV show that bothers to include Lapine, portrays the rabbit family as fundamentalist villains. 

Will he be offended when he learns that “strop” is derogatory?

“I hazza be busy wain politicking and nildro-hain,[17] but I be wain ya thlay to zen when this all fruits,” she tells him, trying to just focus on his breathing and let go of her anger. 

She knows him well enough by now to see him processing, turning over her words in his mind. After a moment, he hedges, “You’ve been busy with politics and...something...but you’ll be with me some way when your project’s done?”

“More or less,” says Judy. He’s trying, and she can’t begrudge him his victories.

* * *

**2017**

“I want to love you,” she says. She feels helpless in the face of Nick’s seemingly-infinite passion. Bunnies don’t _ do _ this. They don’t even have a _ word _ for it in Lapine, and Ÿarre only has _ wainthail, _ which is derogatory half the time. It’s not that bunnies _ can’t _ fall in love, it’s just that they don’t seek it out. They seek out good matches, a decent life, someone with whom they can feel good _ settling. _ “Nick, I want you to have everything you want, everything you deserve, but I don’t know how to give it to you.”

“It’s okay, Ÿudeehlï,” Nick murmurs into the tip of her ear. The words drag down into her skull, and her name sends a shudder down her spine. Nick’s cheek-whistle is longer than it should be and the Ÿ sounds more like a hard J, but it’s his voice, _ their secret, _and the fact that Nick’s making so much effort makes Judy feel seen. The murmur quiets to a bedroom whisper. “Our vines, my darling, have tender grapes.”

The noise that escapes Judy’s chest lands somewhere between a gasp for breath and a wordless plea for more. It’s so _ silly _to feel this way. Nobody ought to get points just for performing acts of basic decency, and learning someone’s name is basic decency. This isn’t special treatment when you look at it objectively. But it’s special to Judy because it’s new, and because Nick doesn’t go out of his way for anybody else. He’s kind of a jerk, and he’s kind of selfish, but he seems to be all-in with her. 

The planter in the window smells sharp and sweet. She could spend a whole afternoon there, nose buried in Nick’s little project — his attempt to give her a piece of home — but he distracts her with a gentle paw running down her torso, separated from her skin only by her layer of fur and her thin tank top. The pressure on her belly is exquisite, and the sharp darts of his claws in her hip only bring more awareness to the gentleness of the rub. His paw wanders down further, caresses her between her legs, rests there in patient anticipation.

She reaches up and behind her head, clasping her paws behind his neck. It forces him forward so his nose and fangs are at her neck, perfect for a whisper at her pulse point, “I _ won’t _leave you again.”

“I know,” she breathes, and it’s true in her thighs and her hips and her heart and her head. 

“I love that about you,” he says. “I love that you believe in yourself enough to believe in me. I love that you know your limits. I love that you trust me enough to admit them. I love that you came to find me when you had every right to hate me. I love that you didn’t leave me when I said no to the ZPA. I love that you love the mammals in this city. I love that you love me. I could spend the rest of my life on my knees for you, showing you that. I don’t want a Harlequin romance. I want Judy Hopps.”

Her knees go weak, but Nick’s paw is already there, cradling her, in the perfect position to hold her up and thumb circles around her clit through her leggings. Every nerve is afire. There is no respite, just pressure and sensation, growing pleasure as he circles and she rocks into his grasp. She comes with a wretched sigh, unable to do anything at all except ride the wave to its end, and it feels different. It wasn’t mind-blowing. It wasn’t the best sex she’s ever had. It wasn’t even the best she’s had with Nick. But it was the best anyway, and she’s wrung out and exhausted from the emotional weight of it.

“Ÿudeehlï,” he murmurs, placing a pointed, tender kiss at her throat, then at her collarbone, then at her shoulder. “Ÿudeehlï.”

When other mammals get it wrong, it hurts. Every time Nick says it, even if he doesn’t get it right, her name feels like a promise or a prayer, or both. For the first time, she regrets changing it. 

So maybe she can’t reciprocate Nick’s love precisely. He wants her anyway, he wants her _ because, _and she feels beautiful, all of the pieces of her, even the ones that are ugly.

* * *

**2022**

As the thorn among lilies, so is her name among the Commons.

And screw anybody who tries to give her trouble over it.

To officially change your name, you have to file documents with the Court, including an affidavit in support of the petition. The affidavit has to have a reason for the change. Judy’s put a lot of thought into how she should word it, and she’s not positive she did it right, but the gist is this:

Her name was stolen by prejudice and she wants it back. Judith is a lovely name, and any bunny born with it wouldn’t blink. But Judy’s done running from her species, and part of reclaiming her power is reclaiming her name.

She considered, briefly, changing it to Judahlia. It’s a similar pronunciation — Joo-DAY-lee-uh — but it’s not hers, and that’s still a capitulation. And this...she thinks that _ this _might make Nick understand.

“It’s about more than just the syllables,” she tells him over coffee. They both have the day off and they’re at Espress Yourself; it feels like she’s years younger. “I used to think names were just sounds you use to tell one mammal apart from another mammal. I changed it because I didn’t realize there would be such big consequences.”

Over the table, Nick covers her paw with his much larger one and asks, “Can you explain it to me?”

This isn’t like the koala from college, who only wanted an explanation so he could plan his next attack. It’s not like the predators from her college activist group, who laughed when she got flustered and told her that prey were too privileged for her tongue-twisted issue to matter. This is Nick, the fox who loves her, asking _ because _he loves her. He’s not perfect, and he’s never going to be. They might fight about this again. They both still have stuff to unlearn, and it might take the rest of their lives just to get halfway through. But she trusts him to be genuine with her, if nothing else.

And there’s a lot of other stuff she trusts him with.

“There’s a lot of baggage wrapped up in rabbit culture, so bear with me,” she warns. He nods, prompting a grateful smile from her. “My whole life, I’ve heard the expression _ for a bunny. _ I’m smart _ for a bunny. _ I’m competent _ for a bunny. _ I’m accomplished _ for a bunny. _ And in a lot of ways, that’s true. Rabbits settle. We don’t have dreams or ambitions, we have reasonable expectations. We don’t fall in love, we find good matches, or if we’re awkward or introverted, our parents find them for us. We don’t speak out when we’re hurt, we pretend it never happened but shun whoever did the hurting. I’m not a normal bunny, but there are a lot of pieces of my culture that rubbed off on me anyway. For...for example, I’m not good at saying no to the mammals I care about. I don’t want to seem ungrateful or make them think — make _ you _think — I’m unappreciative. I don’t usually talk about it, but I blame myself for a lot of things that aren’t my fault, because it’s easier to settle for being wrong than it is to accuse someone else of...not being, um. Good. Stuff like that.”

“Okay,” he says carefully.

“Well…” She waves her paw at the coffee shop. “I used to think it was a compliment. If I’m being told I’m smart _ for a bunny, _ they’re still saying I’m smart, right?” She grins at his sour look. “It took a while, but I learned. It’s not that they’re saying I’m smart, they’re saying bunnies are dumb. Compare: _ real articulate fella.” _

“You can’t keep beating yourself up about that.”

She shrugs. “I’m not; I’m just making a point. It’s not usually malicious, but it’s hurtful anyway. And for a long time I didn’t raise a ruckus when someone said something like that _because _it’s not malicious. I didn’t realize it, but I was taking on that prejudice. Pretty soon I really believed that it was my job to prove my worth _despite my species. _I was running from being a rabbit. I was glad I’d changed my name to something more “normal,” because mammals took me more seriously. I worked hard to show everyone who doubted me that I wasn’t _just _a bunny; I could do whatever I set my mind to. There was even a time when I, I laughed at those speciesist jokes. I even made them, you know, _look at me, _unlike the rest of my species, I can have a good time. I lost myself. Not completely; not even mostly. I just didn’t consider myself a bunny anymore, because a bunny was a shameful thing to be.”

_ “Judy-” _

“And then everything went nuts. I blew the whistle and got fired, and my species was suddenly on blast. Every little perceived flaw got dragged out into the light. Everything from the Lapine remnants to our relationship with gender to the so-called _ weird _religious traditions that most of us don’t even follow, suddenly that was funny for late-night comedians to mock. My name was up for grabs. Did I ever actually tell you why I changed it?”

“Not in so many words.”

“My teachers couldn’t say it right. Group leaders couldn’t say it right. I met with a scholarship counselor, and he called me “Eye-uh-dee-lee.” This in the age of _ Zoogle. _ I knew nobody would take me seriously with a bunny name, so I changed it to something that might make the ZPA think I was a gazelle Hopps, not a rabbit Hopps. I remember thinking that was pretty clever, _ for a bunny.” _

Nick winces. “That sucks.”

“Getting back to the point,” she replies, ignoring that, “I know that prejudice against bunnies doesn’t look like prejudice against foxes. I’m never going to deny that, because it’s a fact. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist, in forms like slurs, and ignoring our personhood, and portraying a patchwork version of various rabbit cultures as a joke on TV, and refusing to learn our names. In phrases like _ good at multiplying _ and _ for a bunny. _ Passive speciesism stole my name from me, and I let it happen.”

“I never saw it like that,” he says with a gentle squeeze of her paw. He looks contrite. “I don’t think I wanted to. This is going to sound horrible, but sometimes I don’t want to share the attention. Sometimes I just want to be angry about fox issues, and admitting that it isn’t just a big double yellow between predator and prey...it’s easy to do out loud, but not so easy in my head.”

“I get it,” she says, because she _ does. _Gideon Grey bullied her for years before that day at the Carrot Days festival, and it made her not want to admit that speciesism against foxes existed, especially after the way Nick treated her. She meant it when she said she’s not beating herself up over it, though. Part of the unlearning process is recentering the problem; her guilt is irrelevant next to the actual issue of speciesism. 

“I know that I don’t…” He sighs into his cup. “I’m not always the best guy to have in your corner. I’m selfish, and I don’t always see what’s right in front of me. I can’t promise to be perfect for you, but I do promise to be _ here _for you. If I’m being dumb, you can let me know. I’ll listen. It might hurt, but I’ll listen.”

It’s been six years since the first time she tugged him along by his paw. They’ve both changed for the better, even though some things will always stay the same. Things were scary back then. Things are scary now, too. But she looks at him and knows the truth. “I trust you, Nick. I love you.”

“And I love you, Ÿudeehlï.”

“Sweet cheese and crackers,” she swears, standing up quickly. That voice could melt steel. “It’s time to take me home. Right this second.”

His mischievous laugh promises at least a couple of kisses on the way. That’s exactly as she likes it.

**Author's Note:**

> +Ÿarre was a bridge between Lapine and AC. Since Lapine didn’t have any tenses at all—time was measured contextually—Ÿarre uses perfect tense, with “hazza” and no past-participle. For pluperfect, “hadda” is the hv. To negate: “hazza no” or “hadda no.” Today, Ÿarre uses both regular past-tense and this. The second is more common among groups who use it as a subversive code (see subcultural cants like Polari, literary argots like Nadsat).[return to text]
> 
> 1From the Lapine word “tharn,” meaning “frozen in fear.” Tharntha means “something super fun.”[return to text]
> 
> 2Guardian/protector; someone who (archaic) gives warning by thumping on the ground.[return to text]
> 
> 3“Ignore the problem.” Binky: a rabbit behavior that involves jumping happily and turning in the air. Ÿarre uses “wain” instead of “with.”[return to text]
> 
> 4“Notte” means “none” or “nothing;” “notte that” has a sliding scale of meanings from “don’t be stupid” to “fuck that.”[return to text]
> 
> 5Lapine word for song; in Ÿarre, a fuss or ruckus[return to text]
> 
> 6Lapine diminutive suffix; in Ÿarre, “cute.” Can be derogatory or affectionate depending on context. Only a bunny can use this on another bunny, but it’s not ever really a compliment.[return to text]
> 
> 7Someone who seeks attention/validation from outsiders (derogatory)[return to text]
> 
> 8Lapine word for a wandering rabbit; in Ÿarre, someone who needs protecting.[return to text]
> 
> 91) someone who loves romantically and seeks out romantic connections instead of settling, not derogatory but weird; 2) someone who pushes boundaries (positive in some circles).[return to text]
> 
> 10Tattletale[return to text]
> 
> 11Traitor; far worse than “grass.” A “butcher” is the kind of shitheel who’d call ICE on someone IRL.[return to text]
> 
> 12From the Lapine word “hy,” meaning “to shine.” In Ÿarre someone who’s hytha might be attention-grabbing in a good way, or they might be prone to decorative vanity.[return to text]
> 
> 13Genuine; alternatively, “honestly.” From the Lapine word “silf,” meaning “not underground”[return to text]
> 
> 14Lapine word for “fur”[return to text]
> 
> 15Lapine word for “dew;” in Ÿarre, often used to mean “soul” or “blood.” The idiom “thlay to zen” is similar to “head to toe” or “inside and out.”[return to text]
> 
> 16 The Lapine word “marli” means “doe.” Lapine words are pluralized with -il. In Ÿarre, “marlil” is a group of friends, no matter the sex or gender.[return to text]
> 
> 17 The Lapine word “nildro,” means blackbird; in Ÿarre, a “nildro” is a gossip. Nildro-hain, or blackbird-song, is gossip.[return to text]


End file.
